True  Lovers. 


REMARKS  MADE  BY  JOSEPH  B.  (SUMMING, 

INTRODUCING 

Gen.  Matthew  Calbraith  Butler, 

ORATOR  OF  THE  DAY, 


ON  THE  OCCASION  OF 


AT  THE  AUGUSTA  CEMETERY, 

Memorial  Day, 


1895. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/trueloversremarkOOcumm 


True  Lovers. 


REMARKS  MADE  BY  JOSEPH  B.  CUMMING, 


INTRODUCING 


Gen.  Matthew  Calbraith  Butler, 


ORATOR  OF  THE  DAY. 


ON  THE  OCCASION  OF 


AT  THE  AUGUSTA  CEMETERY, 

Memorial  Day, 


1895. 


WHERE  in  all  the  world  is  presented  such  a scene 
as  this?  When  in  all  time  shall  we  look  for 
such  an  occasion  ? Some  with  broader  knowl- 
edge or  richer  memories  may  find  a ready  answer  to 
this  inquiry.  My  own  limited  vision  discovers  nothing 
like  it  elsewhere  than  in  this  Southern  land,  or  in  any 
other  time  than  in  these  years  which  have  followed  the 
great  War  between  the  States.  It  is  true  that  in  a few 
weeks  our  brethren  of  the  North,  when  their  loitering 
spring-time  shall  have  reached  the  stage  where  ours  is 
today,  when  for  them  then  as  for  us  now — 

“Spring  rolls  in  her  sea  green  surf 
In  flowery  foaming  waves,” 

will  assemble  in  like  places  and  for  like  purposes;  and 
some  on-looker  with  vision  only,  but  without  reflection 
or  memory,  may  deem  the  occasions  altogether  similar. 
But  indeed,  indeed  how  wide  apart!  The  difference 
between  victory  and  defeat.  The  difference  between 
success  and  failure.  The  difference  between  a cause 
that  is  won  and  a cause  that  was  lost.  The  difference 
between  the  swelling  strains  of  triumph  and  the  minor 
chords  of  a requiem. 

How  common  in  all  times  and  in  all  countries  has  it 
been,  by  anniversaries  and  celebrations,  to  keep  alive 
the  memory  of  national  triumph.  But  when  before  us 
has  a people  given  its  work  of  hand  and  heart  to  per- 
petuate the  story  of  its  conquest  ? When  did  French- 
men weave  garlands  and  floral  wreaths  for  the  anniver- 
sary of  Waterloo,  though  coming  when  the  gorgeous 
month  of  June  carpets  their  fair  land  with  flowers  ? 
When  did  Prussia  ever  establish  celebrations  in  the 
rich  autumnal  harvest  time  in  memory  of  Jena  ? 
When  did  the  Conscript  Fathers  decree  “a  Roman 


3 


Holiday”  for  the  fatal  day  of  Cannae  ? Nowhere, 
metliinks,  save  in  our  land,  and  never  save  in  our  time 
has  a people  busied  itself  to  preserve  the  memory  of  its 
defeat.  Why  is  this  ? Permit  me  to  answer  in  part  in 
language  which  I used  more  than  twenty  years  ago: 

“Strange  spectacle,  and  yet  not  strange!  W7e  were 
conquered,  but  our  cause  was  just.  We  were  fallen, 
but  not  dishonored.  Our  efforts  had  failed,  but  they 
had  made  the  world  ring  with  our  praises.  We  had 
the  irreparable  and  the  irrecoverable  to  lament:  to 
blush  for,  nothing.” 

But  this  answer,  considered  sufficient  then,  has 
ceased  to  satisfy.  The  reasons  then  given  were  nega- 
tive in  their  nature — sufficient,  perhaps,  to  explain 
why  for  a season  we  were  not  ashamed  to  keep  alive 
the  memory  of  our  failure,  but  inadequate  to  account 
for  the  continued  survival  of  an  active  living  spirit, 
which  at  the  end  of  thirty  long  years  still  refuses  to  die. 

I think  I find  the  true  reaso”  in  my  own  heart,  and 
I believe  I would  seek  it  successfully  in  yours.  Indeed, 
strange  as  the  declaration  may  sound  to  some,  that 
great  war  was  fought  on  the  part  of  the  South  more  on 
a sentiment  than  any  other  war  in  all  history.  We 
went  to  war  not  for  conquest,  not  for  glory,  not  to 
escape  oppression.  But  a proud  and  high-spirited  peo- 
ple flew  to  arms  to  defend  what  they  considered  their 
sacred  right,  from  high-handed  and  presumptuous 
interference,  albeit  the  right  itself  was  little  better 
than  an  abstraction.  Nothing  sordid  mingled  with 
our  motives.  No  vulgar  ambition  stained  our  high 
resolve.  No  selfishness  tainted  our  lofty  aspirations. 
We  embraced  the  cause  in  the  spirit  of  lovers.  True 
lovers  all  were  we — and  what  true  lover  ever  loved  less 
because  the  grave  had  closed  over  the  dear  and  radiant 
form  ? 


4 


And  so  we — we  at  least,  who  as  men  and  women 
inhaled  the  true  spirit  of  that  momentous  time — come 
together  on  these  occasions  not  only  with  the  fresh 
new  flowers  in  our  hands,  but  with  the  old  memories 
in  our  thoughts  and  the  old,  but  ever  fresh,  lover  spirit 
in  our  hearts,  and  seek  to  make  these  occasions  not 
unworthy  of  the  cause  we  loved  unselfishly  and  of  these 
its  sleeping  defenders. 

In  one  respect  at  least  how  fittingly  have  we  ordered 
this  occasion.  The  orator  of  the  day,  whom  I shall 
have  the  honor  to  introduce  to  you,  is  most  fitly 
chosen.  Fitly  chosen  for  his  ancestry’s  sake — those 
Ormonds  and  Butlers  who  three  centuries  ago  in  the 
Emerald  Isle  fought  in  knightly  fashion  for  their  native 
land — a race  of  gentlemen,  who  through  three  genera- 
tions have  been  found  sword  in  hand,  ready  to  strike  a 
blow — aye  and  striking  it  right  doughtily — for  this 
their  country,  in  the  Revolution,  in  1812,  in  Indian 
wars,  in  Mexico,  and,  latest  of  all,  in  that  vast  conflict 
which  shook  all  the  land  and  resounded  through  all  its 
borders.  Well,  too,  have  we  chosen  on  his  own  merits 
— the  bold  rider,  the  dashing  sabreur,  the  gallant  lead- 
er, the  wise  and  able  commander — the  soldier  whose 
twenty-eighth  year  found  him,  in  right  of  his  own 
brave  deeds  and  honorable  wounds,  a Major-General  of 
cavalry  in  the  glorious  army  of  Lee.  Thrice  well 
chosen  as  the  incarnation  of  those  sentiments  and  prin- 
ciples, which  made  the  old  South  what  it  was  and  the 
war  it  waged  an  undying  glory.  Him,  gallant  soldier, 
distinguished  statesman,  representative  and  type  of  the 
best  Southern  manhood,  I now  present  to  you — Gen- 
eral Matthew  Calbraith  Butler. 


